


Third Shift

by JimDandy



Series: Souvenir Shotglasses [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Family, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27323626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JimDandy/pseuds/JimDandy
Summary: “I think my horse is in love with you.”  Charles felt himself calling over to Arthur after they had gotten underway.  Arthurs hat tilted up, eyes looking over to Charles, an ever so slight quirk to his mouth.“Your horse, huh?”-------Charles joins the gang.More pre-canon plotless pining, as always, a bit one-sided on Charles' part.Continuation of Ten-Cent Adventures and Double Down.  Can be read as stand-alone, but this one more directly references the other two.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, John Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Charles Smith
Series: Souvenir Shotglasses [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018951
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	1. Mister Smith

**Author's Note:**

> One day I might serialise so it makes sense to everyone. We'll see.

He heard the click of the revolver a second before he felt the cold metal barrel on the back of his neck.

“Hands up. Don’t think about reaching for that gun.” Charles slowly raised his hands. Stupid, how stupid to get caught like this. But desperation can make a fool out of anyone. 

The rain was coming down in relentless sheets, and had been for the last six days. He had been staking out a particularly nasty rocky stretch through the northwestern Grizzlies, waiting for an oil prospector heading west to Seattle from Wapiti land. Down a winding narrow path, Taima took a bit of a stumble and landed herself a sizable gash on her front leg. With Taima unable to heal in the soaking rain, and unable to bear Charles’ weight, they had only been able to move two difficult miles down the mountain in twice as many days. 

Ultimately, it wasn’t hunger that made Charles risk sneaking into the camp, he was able to hunt himself a small bird or two caught roosting in a rocky crag, and a few sparse bits of brush for Taima to munch. No. He was desperate for ointment, some dry bandages, maybe a bit of horse reviver to patch up her leg. She bothered at it every so often. He knew he could fix her, wouldn’t even give a thought to losing her, he just needed a little help.

He had noticed the smoke a day and a half ago as he huddled over his horse, covering her and a bit of himself with a large bearskin. It wasn’t exactly dry, but it wasn’t drowning either, and it gave her leg a chance to scab over. After wrapping her in the skin, he had gone on foot to observe from afar. There was a small camp with three men, situated on a precarious slope with a few scant aspens. They strung up a large canvas to protect the fire and to keep their supplies dry, and more importantly, they had horses. Many horses. Charles counted more than half a dozen. He snuck in closer that night as they slept, getting a bearing on where and what the supplies might be.

They were either wranglers or rustlers, Charles wasn’t sure, nor did he particularly care, but what they would have is what Taima needed. So Charles watched and waited. On the second night they broke out several liquor bottles. The sounds of their laughter echoed, even through the rain, off of the rock walls and surrounded Charles in an eerie hollow cacophony. Taima whinnied softly and nudged at Charles’ side, her leg open and bleeding again in the downpour. He patted her neck and rested his forehead against her nose, promising her relief soon. 

He barely waited until they were passed-out drunk, not even letting the fire die out before he snuck in. Taima needed him, he was going to get her out of this.

It must have been a set-up.

“I’m gonna say it again,” the barrel of the revolver pushed into the back of his neck, punctuating every word. “reach for that gun, you’re dead.” Rasped the man behind him. Charles kept still. 

“Now son, turn around, real slow.” This voice came low and even from several paces away. “Javier, relieve this fine gentleman of his side-arm will you? I’d like to keep this conversation civil, not draw any attention. John, keep where you are.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles watched the third man approach, hand on his own gun as he leaned in carefully to confiscate Charles’ weapon. As soon as the man's hand touched the hilt, Charles slid a knife from his sleeve and pulled the man around, his arm across his neck, knife to his throat. 

“Shit! Javier!” 

“Now John.” The man with the low voice spoke, he was older, dark haired and mustached. The leader Charles would wager, as he held an arm out across the chest of the man still holding the revolver. It was now raised to rest between Charles’ eyes. “We don’t want to hurt our dear Mister Escuella. So tell me friend -and forgive me for being blunt- you don't look like a member of any gangs I know of, or an O’Driscoll. You damn sure don’t seem to be a bounty hunter, so what business do you have sneaking into our camp?” Charles tipped the knife slightly into his captives skin, who held his hands up in surrender. The blade glinted faintly in the firelight.

“Dutch….” The gun barrel quivered.

“John, put your gun away, your unnerving our dear new friend here…..” The man with the mustache gestured towards Charles expectantly. There was a stretch of silence. The hand motioned in the air again. 

“Charles.” 

“Our dear new friend Charles. That’s it……gun away son.” His hand followed the gun, motioning downward, as if that alone would deescalate the situation. “Now everybody stay calm, we’re going to get through this rationally. This here-” he motioned to the man next to him who had shoulder length dark hair, clothes that seemed to be pieced together from odds and ends that didn’t sit quite right on his lanky frame. “This here is John. The man you are currently leveraging our kindness with is Javier.” Charles felt Javier nod ever so slightly.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” He gritted out against the knife in a slight accent. His knitted wool poncho, heavy with rain, stuck to his raised arms and his hair was plastered against the sides of his face. 

“And I,” he motioned to himself. He wore a fine waistcoat with a gold glinting watch chain, and a rather expensive looking, and rather water repellent, black overcoat. “Am Dutch Van der Linde, pleasure to meet you, Charles.” 

“I think…… I think I know this fella Dutch.” John’s scratching voice broke through the steady beat of rain hitting the canvas overhang, the fire hissed and flickered as an odd drop or two splashed onto the dying embers between the tense silence. “Is your…. Are you…. Mister Smith?” He could see John squinting, trying to make out his face in the low light. 

“……..Yes?” Confused, Charles rebalanced himself, readying to do what he had to to get out of there if the situation were to turn. People did not ‘know him’. He shifted his grip. Any second now. 

“Just ‘cause you know him John, don’t mean he ain’t going to gut me.” Came Javier’s strained voice. The blade vibrated slightly in Charles’ hand with each word. 

“Son?” Asked Dutch.

“Yeah, yeah. I recognise the scar.” John motioned to his own right cheek, miming up and down where Charles’ scar was. “Arthur and I, ‘bout….God what? Ten, ‘leven years ago?” He kept looking to Charles for help. The name Arthur gave Charles pause for half-a-beat. “He stopped Arthur from beatin’ the shit outta me. I stole his journal. Back in Montana, ages ago.” There was another long pause. Suddenly recognition. 

“You failed to mention the part where I threatened to throw you off of a roof.” Charles felt like he was practically yelling over the rain.

“Hah! Yes, I knew it!” 

Charles relaxed slightly on the knife. Holding Johns stare as best he could. They stood in silence a few seconds longer before Charles raised his hands back up, and stepped away from Javier. 

“Mierda.” Javier lurched forward, rubbing at his throat. “I wouldn’t want to take you in a fight.” 

“Since you spared our young Javier here, what is it we can help you with?” Dutch stepped closer to the fire, out of the rain. His hand still rested on the butt of his gun. 

“Horse medicine, a few bandages.” 

“All of this for horse medicine?” Javier still suspicious, lined himself up next to Dutch. Charles, keeping his hands up, gave two sharp whistles. He heard Tamia whicker off in the distance. They waited. She slowly limped her way into the camp, the bear skin still bundled around her neck. She stopped and flicked her ears ay the sight of the unfamiliar men. 

“Come.” Charles urged and she stalked her way over to him, slightly under the canvas. Resting her nose against his temple, she lifted her hurt leg at him, showing him so he would help her. The wound was open and seeping blood again. Charles looked up at Dutch.

“We’ve been stuck up here for days. This rain….” 

“Damn, it don’t look too good.” John came closer to them. Taima put her leg down, haunch muscles jumping, ready to run at the first sign from Charles. John crouched to dig through supply baskets, fishing around, pulling several bottles out trying to read them by firelight. Dutch put a few more dry logs into the dying flames. John hopped back up with a small vial and a tin, Taima snorted at his approach. 

“It’s okay.” Charles whispered to her before reaching for the offered items. 

“Son, do you need a place to stay the night?” Dutch offered, Charles hesitated. “Seeing as John’s vouchin’ for you, I trust that you will not murder us all in our sleep. Mister Escuella, you're on watch, please. Don’t need no more surprises this evening.” With that Dutch turned and retreated back into the darkness to the lean-to they had bunked under.

Two days later, the clouds broke as the valley floor neared. Charles sat atop a large, borrowed bay, Taima tethered and trailing behind him. Her wound had closed up for good, finally drying out by the fire and ointment applied, he bound it in soft and dry leather strips. She no longer limped, or held her leg up when they stopped. Charles had been allowed to stay with the small gang, as long as he provided a bit of muscle for the job they were running. The horses, rustled off some wealthy rancher, were on their way to be sold to a tribe up north who were paying top dollar. Charles found himself in agreement with the crime, even though they were just likely in it for the money, decided to stick around. Not many people would risk repercussions of an army mandated blockade, even if it was for a few thousand dollars. 

“You know, Javier is the one that caught on to you bein’ up there. Found a boot print up on the ridge.” John began. He had trotted up next to Charles, riding next to him on any occasion the path was wide enough to allow two horses. Not fully in Dutch’s good graces, Charles and John lead the small herd so Javier and Dutch could keep an eye on him. Taima skittered nervously every time John spoke, edging as far away from him as she could on her rope lead. “We cut across the mountains to throw the law off our trail. Weren’t planning on staying a second night until Javier saw someone was on to us. He’s our best tracker, saw another print circle round ‘bout 50 yards out. Figured no one with sense’d be out there, unless they was hunting us.”

Charles hummed at this, not knowing if John realised his insult. 

“Say, Charles-“

“Say, John.” He mimicked. John looked at him, waiting for him to speak. John did not incessantly chatter, like he had done as a boy, but he did not take to long stretches of silence well. Charles could probably count on one hand the total number of things he had said to John in the last day, and fill a small book with all the things John had said to him. “I don’t recall ever introducing myself to you all those years ago, I’m surprised you could even recognise me.”

John let out a raspy laugh. “Blame Arthur.” 

“What?”

“His damn journal that I stole. You know, fond of cataloging everything. He had drawn a picture of you, kep’ it for years. ‘MR. SMITH’ written under it, along with some other stuff.” John cast him a look, and a smile. He steered his horse over and behind Charles, the path narrowing again. 

For a long time after the night at the saloon, a decade or more ago, Charles went to sleep with the image of Arthur’s blue eyes staring up at him, that knowing tilt to his lips, fingers running through his hair. What if he hadn’t let his pride get in the way that night? What if he had given in and let Arthur’s smirking mouth meet his own nervous one? The heat of another body pressed against him, the pair of them breathless….. He never was sure if he regretted walking away that night, or was glad of it. He wished and thought on it so often as to make himself sick. He drowned it all out with forays into towns that started with drinking and ended with him tangled in an occasional strangers bedsheets. 

Years had dragged on, and with it, foolish young ideas had finally been buried. Charles could not remember the last honest time his waking mind had thought on Arthur Morgan.


	2. Meet Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ay, Arthur's in this one.

A week after reaching the valley floor, Charles rode into the Van der Linde Gangs camp for the first time. it was near noon, and the heat was unbearable. Far too hot for November. They were somewhere north of New Austin, Charles could smell the desert on the wind on the very rare and kind occasion it would stir. Charles was not complaining, anything was preferable to being soaked through to the bone for a week. Javier had jokingly wondered weather any of their hands would ever un-prune, and Charles silently agreed. 

The job had gone fairly smoothly, Charles earning a permanent invite to the gang when a bounty hunter happened upon them, recognising Dutch from a wanted poster. He received an arrow through his neck before he was able to sound alarm to his cohorts nearby. He fell off his horse, landing in a puddle of his own blood and spit and died gasping soon after. It earned a whistle from John and a “If he wanted to kill us, he woulda a looong time ago.” From Javier. 

Charles wasn’t sure what made him say yes to staying. There was something in the way Dutch spoke that was captivating. He sat around the fire at night recounting various tales he knew by memory, occasionally something the gang had done in the old days- help the poor, save a town. Charles realised he had seen Dutch before, decades ago as he stood next his own father, walking up to collect a reluctant Arthur. He certainly was not staying for the chance to see…. well. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, anyway. 

“My friends!” Dutch called as they entered camp, he sounded like he should be on a pulpit. “We have returned triumphant with the spoils of our effort, including a fine new recruit into our little family.” There were many large tents in the camp, wagons, as well as tables set with china and glassware, lines set with laundry, livestock, chickens. Everything was all carefully arranged in a circle, a clearing in the middle. It was protected by a lush creek that edged most of the tents and surrounded by large oaks. It looked more like a homestead than a camp. People began filing out of tents at Dutch’s voice, no doubt seeking refuge inside from the mid-day sun, and gathered around them. Charles was introduced then, many people eagerly greeting him, he was having trouble reigning Taima in, nearly rearing when approached. It was almost too much, even for him.

“Hey Abigail, where's Arthur?” John asked a dark haired woman the second he dismounted. 

“Is that really the first question that’s gonna come out of your mouth, John Marston?” Came the scathing reply. Her hand rested on the fluffy blond hair of a small boy who could not have been more than four.

“Yes?” John looked at her, puzzled. She nodded, her mouth drawn into a thin line. 

“Come on Jack.” She turned on her heels and ushered the boy away briskly. 

“I just don't get her.” John looked to Charles for answers. Charles looked around to see if maybe someone was standing behind him that John was looking at instead. There wasn’t. How that hell was Charles to know? He didn’t even know the woman.

“She Arthur’s girl?” 

“Abigail? Naw! She’s my….. well she’s my… hmmm.”  
Ah. 

So John really was just an idiot. 

More than a week had passed since he joined, and Charles had etched out a routine. He was up before sunrise, feeding horses, stoking fires, chopping wood. Hosea was always up as well, preparing coffee and clearing tables and mess from the previous night. This morning was no different, it was still fairly early, the horses were fed and the fires were roaring. Most of camp still asleep, Charles took a moment to enjoy a break and a cigarette by the creek. John had joined him, unusually awake and shockingly enough, silently, when a cry of “Uncle Arthur!” rang out from the clearing a few paces away. John’s head whipped around, Charles followed. 

“Hey, Jack.” A large, broad shouldered man, wearing a dark hat strode up from the hitching post to the patch of sun in the center of camp where Jack was playing. Jack jumped to his feet, arms outstretched as he was scooped up and playfully tossed into the air. Jack laughed as he was caught and fake-dropped. Charles saw Abigail, still in her nightclothes, looking at the scene fondly while hiding a smile behind her hand. He glanced to John, the steam almost visibly coming out of his ears. Charles couldn't understand, according to Hosea, Jack was John's son, though he wouldn't take responsibility. He had all but outright ignored the boy and his mother since Charles had arrived, what right did he have to be angry? The fool was digging his own hole.

Hosea walked up between John and Charles, book in hand, and chuckled at the scene. 

“Nice of Arthur to play with Jack.” He smiled at John. Hosea, Charles had noticed, liked to slyly push buttons. He had observed a few underhanded insults directed at Bill most often, even Dutch once or twice. “If he knew you was watching him, he’d probably have ignored him, though.”

“Good.” John bit out around his cigarette. They watched as Jack sat in Arthur’s arms, animatedly telling him a story, and Arthur walked back over to the hitching post. He paused suddenly, looking around. 

“Whose horse’s this?” He stopped in front of Taima, shifting all of Jacks weight into one arm, held the other out palm flat for Taima to sniff. 

“That’s Charles’ horse!” Jack exclaimed “Watch out, she's mean.” She had tried to nip at Jack yesterday after he’d gotten too close, Charles pulled him back just as her teeth snapped in the space the boys ear had been. She was having a lot of difficulty around so many other people and horses, Charles was spending most of his days just trying to get her to calm down. He’d even been using a blanket as a blinder, covering her face at night to keep her from seeing the others, allowing her to actually relax. 

“Mean? Naw, can’t be.” Taima flicked her ears and cautiously bumped her nose into Arthur’s offered hand as he clicked and whispered to her. He chuckled and scratched at her lip before he moved off to rummage around in his own saddle bag slung over the rack, Jack still half-sitting against one of Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur finally came up with what appeared to be a stuffed billfold and walked back over to the clearing. Abigail met him halfway and stretched her arms up for Jack to be deposited into them. 

“Abigail.” He greeted warmly as she rested Jack on her hip. 

“Arthur. Jack, what do you say, seein’ as not everyone ‘round here is as kind as Uncle Arthur with their time?” 

“Thank you for playing, Uncle Arthur!” 

“Uh oh. Something wrong in paradise, Miss Roberts?” He snarked and she rolled her eyes, waving Arthur off. He tipped his hat, and spotting John, started towards them. There was a slight hitch in his step as he noticed Charles, his eyes giving him a once over before he fell into the circle of the three of them. “Hosea. John.” He nodded and held his hand out to shake. “You must be…?” 

“Charles Smith.” Charles shook the hand firmly, and was answered with a small grunt before the hand ripped itself out of his grasp. 

“You remember Charles, Arthur?” John rasped out, tone slightly tinged with annoyance, trying to steer the conversation away from himself. “Remember, when we was in Montana on that coach robbery, and I stole your journal?” 

“Marston, if I could remember every fool time you stole my journal, I’d be smart ‘nuff to be a god damned accountant.” John balked at him. “However, yes, I do s’pose I recollect Mister Smith here.” Charles felt his face heat. He had figured when they officially ‘met’ he would much rather Arthur had forgotten him again, but then the small pang in his gut told him otherwise. He was glad no one seemed to notice.

“What happened Arthur?” Hosea sighed, dismayed at Arthurs sour attitude. No doubt he had come over to grief John on his lack of family skills before being caught off guard by Charles.

“What?”

“On the job. You were supposed to be back three days ago.”

“Oh that. Gotdammed Micah.” He huffed, annoyed. “I swear I don’t know why Dutch is lettin’ him stay. He’s a right coward, less than worthless. Bastard left me with three bounty hunters on me. Lit out quick as anything at the first bullet. The chickenshit. Next time Dutch wants him on a job, he can go with him.” 

“Looks like you still managed to get the money, though.” Hosea concluded, pointing to the billfold still in Arthurs hand. 

“As always.” Arthur conceded with a sigh. “I’m going to go talk t’Dutch an’ then throw myself into bed. Ain’t slept in two days.” 

“Alright, Arthur.” Hosea patted his arm and Arthur walked away with a wave over his shoulder. 

Charles woke as usual the next morning in the pre-dawn hours, the clear sky just starting to turn grey and cast everything in bluish hues. Charles pulled his hair back in a low tie and threw on one of his more work-worn shirts. He exited the tent Javier was letting him bunk in, since Javier usually took the night watch he and Charles shared the tent in shifts. 

Halfway to the horses, he noticed Taima’s blinder was off already, and she was munching hay. Arthur was perched against a nearby tree, hat down and smoking. He was wearing jeans over his union suit, which was unbuttoned nearly to his navel, clearly not ready to start the day. Charles couldn't help the quick pass of his eyes down Arthur, feeling an odd warmth over himself. 

“Morning Arthur.” 

The hat brim tilted up. “Oh. Mornin’. Sorry I was… miles away.” Arthur answered, pushing himself off of the tree, his voice still thick from sleep. He took another drag of his cigarette, and walked over. “Ain’t used to no one bein’ up this early, ‘cept maybe Hosea.” Charles shrugged, Taima had heard his voice and perked up. Her head bumping Charles’ chest as he held his arms out to her, cradling her face and scratching her ears. 

“She’s beautiful.” Arthur reached his hand out too, to scratch at her neck. She did not back away.

“Taima.” Charles offered. 

“Beautiful girl, ain’tcha, Taima?” Arthur whispered to her. A large black dappled thoroughbred sauntered over to whinny at Arthur and throw her head, knocking Arthur’s hat off to playfully nibble at his hair. He gave a small chuckle, patting her neck. “Good mornin’ to you too. This here’s Boadicea.” Taima skittered away, stomping a hoof in displeasure as Boadicea turned to bite at her mane. “Nervous one, ain’t she?’” 

“Not used to being around others. Surprised she let you get the blinder off.” Arthur held out a palm again for Taima whispering soothingly under his breath. She sniffed his hand cautiously. 

“See, get the smell on Boadicea, she ain’t bad.” 

“You’re the first person here she’s let touch her.“ Charles admitted, and it gave his stomach a weird twist. It felt significant somehow and made Charles feel like a silly little kid, giddy almost. 

“Hah, probably less’t my attributes an’ more ‘cause I gave her a few treats this mornin’. Hope you don't mind.” Arthur flicked the stub of his cigarette away. 

“No.” 

“Alright then.” The smallest hint of a smile passed over his face. “ I'll leave you to it. Never a minute of down time.” Arthur gave each horse another good scratch and dismissed himself with a tipped hat and salute thrown Charles’ way.

Arthur was not often in camp, and when he was, most mornings went the same , though he was significantly more clothed after that first morning. They shared a few pleasantries while they smoked and greeted their horses, then went about their usual business. Arthur was fairly reserved, sullen, and quick to snap when he wasn’t interested in conversation. Fortunately, Charles rarely wanted to converse as it was, so he was spared this particular wrath. From what Charles had known, and he had not known much, it seemed Arthur was a different person to the boy he met two decades ago. He did not wear the cocksure confidence of youth that cascaded off of the young man who had tried to kiss him on the second story of a saloon all those years ago. Arthur was still quite handsome, his face was a little more worn, he had lines around his eyes, a few more scars, he was often wind-chapped and sun-flecked, but the face was the same as in Charles’ memories. Arthur forewent his hat in the early morning as often as not, so Charles was able too catch a few spare glances. Sometimes he’d look up to find Arthur looking at him, and would give him a slight nod in acknowledgement, receiving one in return. Other times he’d look up to see him quickly glance away. 

He began to prefer camp when Arthur was away because he didn’t have to wrestle with his own flyaway thoughts, the ridiculous need to know where Arthur was at all times. He felt vulnerable, and did not enjoy the feeling. His constant want to seek his face out, glimpse a rare smile. The need to catch a glint of golden hair poking out from under a faded black hat. It was all a bit much. 

Worse yet, Arthur and Taima had become fast friends, and Charles would often see him with her and Boadicea by the hitching posts or hay bales, patting and scratching and being affectionate. Taima had taken to greeting Arthur the same way she did Charles, by setting her entire face against his chest every morning. It made Charles’ heart ache. It made John livid.

It had been weeks now, Taima still skirted around John and nipped if he tried to force the issue. He had even tried to bribe her with sugar cubes, something they had both observed Arthur do on a few occasions where Taima had spooked. She did not go for it, instead she pulled her reins off the hitch and meandered over to lean against Boadicea, who was being brushed. 

“Hey Taima.” Came the affectionate drawl, followed by her receiving a few brushes of her own. She stared over at John and Charles, challenging John to try something now, cheeky thing that she was. 

When it came time to move camp, Dutch and Hosea had some good leads, and some good feelings, about a town called Blackwater to the southeast, so once Arthur and Javier had scouted a decent spot, they packed up. The whole camp chatted excitedly, as this was supposed to be ‘it’. The move before the ‘final move’, something that was imminent and in a tangible near future. Just a little more money and then off to California or wherever it was, to buy up all the land they could, put down roots, make a life. It was a nice dream, and Charles only loosely bought into it. These folk were not the quiet ranching type. Though he could not say he didn't very occasionally let his mind wander to daydreams of lazy mornings on a ranch, drinking coffee on a porch, while a sun- freckled face with squinting blue eyes smiled up at him. 

John got into another loud spat with Abigail, a biweekly tradition, just as they were all departing. He watched Abigail throw her arms up in frustration, and John took off on his horse, headed to the front of the caravan. She angrily snapped the reigns of the wagon she was now driving alone, and spurred on. 

Taima insisted on riding alongside Boadicea, as Arthur and Charles made up the end of the caravan. Now and again Taima would toss her head Arthur’s way when she heard his low voice hum out a tune, or give Boadicea praise. 

“I think my horse is in love with you.” Charles felt himself calling over to Arthur after they had gotten underway. Arthurs hat tilted up, eyes looking over to Charles, an ever so slight quirk to his mouth. 

“Your horse, huh?” He asked smoothly, mischief in his eyes, and Charles answered with a “Mm.” He kept Arthurs gaze, not letting himself get flustered. It was like looking at a small spark of a young Arthur, not the brooding sullen man he so often portrayed now, that gave Charles pause. Arthur smiled before looking back down. “She’s a good horse. I always did like appaloosas.” Charles hadn’t realised his heart had stopped beating until it kicked back to life. 

“That she is.” Charles agreed, with a loving pat on Taima’s neck. He kept his voice flat, and hoped his face remained neutral. 

After a few hours of riding in silence, Jack began to fuss on Abigail’s wagon. She waved Arthur up, and he trotted Boadicea over, returning with Jack sitting in front of him a few minutes later. He fell back into step with Charles, and Jack eyed Taima cautiously. 

“Wassa matter Jack?” Arthur asked after Jack kept shifting in his seat, trying to angle himself out of biting range. 

“I’m scared.”

“Scared a what? This horse here?” Jack nodded. “Naw, can't be, I seen you steerin’ that wagon, protectin’ your Ma’. Ain’t no way a horse got your nerves.” He grabbed Jack’s hand and placed a sugar cube in it, moving both of their hands together to lay flat, outstretched. Charles slowed and moved Taima over. Both horses stopping for a second. “Keep steady now.” Arthur encouraged as Jacks small hand lay open in Arthur’s much larger one. If he didn’t know any better, they really could pass as father and son. Jack’s blond hair nearly matched Arthur’s, his eyes were Abigail’s deep blue, but his face really was John’s. Charles wondered how John seemed unable to see it, or if it was just refusal to see it.

Jack shrieked and giggled as Taima gently took the sugar cube, and wiped the horse spit off on his shirt. 

“Good job, Jack.” Charles praised as jack scrunched up his nose, still laughing. They both simultaneously sped their horses up, easily catching the caravan. 

“Did you see me? Did you see that Uncle Arthur? Did you?”

“Course.” Arthur smiled again over at Charles. “I guess it don't help your case none that you probably smell like your father, and she don't seem to like him much. Good taste that Charles’ horse has.” 

“Uncle Arthur.” The boy scolded. He soon forgot the offense and pointed out many different trees, bugs, birds anything he saw, to both Charles and Arthur, telling stores that often went nowhere. Yeah, he really was John’s son. 

It wasn’t long after, maybe an hour or so before sunset, that Jack drifted off to sleep. 

“I don't really understand John.” Charles finally said, quietly. 

“Tch, think I do? An’ I known him for twelve years.”

“He’s never outright said it, but I’m pretty certain he thinks the ‘M’ is ‘Morgan’ and not ‘Marston’ if you catch me.” Charles tilted his head towards Jack, not wanting the boy to overhear and relay anything to his mother. Arthur deadpanned. 

“Really? Spittin’ image of his father, if he’d care to ever look at him. What an absolute moron. Never mind that Abigail and I never…..” His mouth scrunched up into a scowl in a decent imitation of Hosea. 

“Sounds like him too.” Charles used his hand to mimic taking, hoping to lighten the mood. It worked, as Arthur gave a quiet chuckle. 

“He just don’t think. Jus’-“

“ Well, well, outlaw, murderer, attack dog, and babysitter, eh Morgan?” 

“Micah.” Arthur bit out between gritted teeth, his back straightening. 

“Happy to see me?” A man on a black and white horse rode up from behind, pulling beside them. He was wearing a flat brimmed white hat and long duster. Taima gave him a wide berth. 

“In a pine box, maybe.”

“Easy Arthur. I see Dutch’s affinity for strays has not abated in my absence.” He gestured to Charles. Every word out of his mouth seemed to be dripping with slime. He gave Charles an uneasy feeling. He supposed he liked most of Dutch’s crew with a few exceptions; Bill who was a moron- though seemed scared enough of Charles that he never spoke more than a hello to him, Uncle and the Reverend who were absolutely useless, and Mac who ran his mouth far to loudly and too often. Most everyone else was pleasant enough, he could even say he was starting to make a few friends in John, Javier, and Hosea. Micah, he felt an immediate disdain for. “Don’t know how he thinks were gonna feed this many mouths on some ranch without more money. Lots more. Lucky I been scouting in Blackwater for you all, and got Dutch some good leads.” He leered at Arthur, purposely agitating him. 

“So you leave me high n’ dry, and run away to Blackwater?”

“You’re a big boy, Morgan. Knew you could handle yourself.” He gave a smirk, knowing Arthur well enough to not be contradicted. Arthur just fumed. “Well, lots to discuss with the boss. So many possibilities. Evenin’, Friends.” With that he tipped his hat and kicked his horse into a canter, racing to the front of the caravan. 

“Here, I got somethin’ I gotta see about.” Charles reached for Jack, who was still sleeping peacefully, as Arthur, carefully but hurriedly, was handing him over. 

“Yah!” With that, Arthur sped away after Micah, anger practically visible in the waning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few more written out ideas that'll most likely go into this storyline & be posted as little ficlets, same as these.

**Author's Note:**

> This was primarily just so I could write Soft Arthur being a horse boy and good uncle. 
> 
> As always, sorry for any errors, they are difficult to catch on a tiny screen.


End file.
